Choice
by UnofficialLurker
Summary: What is more important; being a son or being a father?


It took Chibs grabbing his shoulders, turning him around and forcing him to look at the babies to make him understand. He wouldn't have listen to anyone else, not his mom, not his wife. Possibly Opie, but Opie was dead, and that was really what had started the tailspin he couldn't seem to break out of. Only punching, hurting, killing, to force matters into line, to make reality the way he wanted it to be.

Chibs came to the house, Tara was gone. At work, or running errands; he didn't know right now. They went to the boys' room together, and Chibs stood staring down at sleeping children, and started talking about Kerrianne. How he wished he could have been there for her, how he would have done anything for her. Then he grabbed Jax and made him look down at his sons, and asked him what he was fighting for. Not what he was fighting against, they all knew that, and it didn't matter that much in the end.

He told him to make sure the club was safe, then he would leave. Take his family and go. For a future for his boys, a future without so much blood and death.

And Chibs slapped the back of his head. Told him that he was making a right mess of it all, if that was the case. Because he sure didn't act like he was moving forward, moving away. He was looking back, tying himself into knots over what had happened a long time ago, over old wrongs. There was always more to do, more loose ends, more scores to settle. And now, when his wife risked prison for the club, he had to decide. What was most important, being a father or being a son? A son to a dead father, or a father to living sons? Because the road was splitting, and no matter which he went down, he couldn't have both.

Then Chibs left. Called Tara and told her to stay away for a while. Her husband needed to argue with himself.

He spent the night in his boys' room. Listening to them breathe, make noises in their sleep. And the thoughts kept spinning. Retribution was a part of him, was what he had been taught as far back as he could remember. If someone does you wrong, if someone hurts you, you hurt them back, preferably twice as bad. That's how you get respect, reputation. And reputation is all you have. Clay killing his father meant Clay had to die. No other road to go down. You do what needs to be done, and if there is a price, you pay it. And blood answers blood.

But what is owed the living? For the dead, there is only vengeance. The living, you owe protection, if they are yours to protect. Your children are. That's the job a parent has, to keep the children safe, and to teach them to do the same when their time comes. To teach your children to fight for what is right, what is owed.

He fell asleep, knowing he was doing the right thing, the only possible thing. And woke, unsure. Tara was home, had come sometime during his mulling in the night, gone to bed after checking on the boys. They hadn't talked; Chibs had told her to leave Jax to think, that he needed to sort his head out, and if he talked to someone he might just dig his heels in. Stubborn man.

He leaves the boys with their mother, and just drives. The only thing he can hear is the engine, not even his own thoughts make it through the roar. He stops outside the town, where there is hardly any traffic, just quiet. He went there with Tara, in the early days this time around, planning to spend the day, but got called back. Something for the club, he can't remember what.

His father wrote of wanting a better life for his children, a life without gunrunning and feuds. He wants the same for his boys, for his wife. For himself. And he knows he is trying. But the question Chibs (father without his child, husband without his wife) had asked him the night before wouldn't stop running through his head; what is more important, being a father or being a son? The answer is obvious, he gave it immediately; being a father. Of course, being a father. But how could he be a good father, without being a good son? Without washing clean his father's blood with that of his killer?

He called Chibs, met up alone. And asked what he had never thought to ask before; if it had been possible, would he have taking his girls and walked away, leaving Jimmy O alive? If that had been the choice, what would Chibs have done? He didn't expect the answer to be laughter; not a happy one, sure, but still laughter. Then, one word. Yes. For his girls, for his child, yes. Yes.

And he understands. Wouldn't have, had it come from anyone else. Living sons over dead father. Life over death. You are responsible for and to your family, always, and forgiveness isn't really in the cards. But a man, dead from crashing a sabotaged bike, no matter how painful, how wrong that death was, cannot take precedence over two living boys, and a living woman. The club is safe, and has options to move away from drugs and guns, should they so desire. His father's legacy is tattered, but not gone.

He goes home. Asks his wife to wait until Pope is dead; that must happen. For Opie. For Tig, though he hates to admit that part.

Two months later, they are in Providence. His ink is blacked out.


End file.
